


we're the heirs to the glimmering world

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-07
Updated: 2010-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 11:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're an investment banker," Eames tells him. "You're very good. You keep me in the style I'm accustomed to, and we are charmingly co-habitating."</p><p>Arthur pauses and tries to take that in.</p><p>"Is there a reason why I'm your imaginary boyfriend?" Arthur asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're the heirs to the glimmering world

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from The National's "The Geese of Beverly Road"

Arthur is in London with Eames. It's a long story how, and involves one of the most staggeringly boring jobs he's ever worked, caught in corporate fraud and petty disputes. It paid well, though, and they didn't risk much doing it, and now, now he can enjoy London, even if Eames is stuck to his side like a burr, giving him an abridged tour that involves far more stories of drunken debauchery than Arthur thinks the tour truly warrants.

Of course, that all changes once Eames gets recognized.

"Charles!" he hears, and Eames manages an "oh lord," entirely under his breath, before turning around and smiling, the wattage turned up to the sort of degree only the most stubborn marks get.

"Mother," he says, and they exchange the sort of kiss that involves neither coming close to touching one another.

"And you must be Arthur," she says, and gives him an appraising look.

"Oh, has he mentioned me?" Arthur asks, and glares at Eames over her shoulder. Eames looks like he's choking on his own tongue.

"He's only said good things, I assure you," she says, with this tinkling laugh that is both charming and utterly false. "We must get brunch. I'm famished, and Charles never comes to see me."

Without even realising it, Arthur somehow gets manhandled into a chic little restaurant without having a hand laid on him.

"Mother," Eames says, after they're seated. "I must borrow Arthur for a moment."

She raises an eyebrow, but lets them leave, Eames' hand tight around Arthur's wrist as they walk out the door, Eames stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and blocking everyone's way.

"Your mother knows I exist," Arthur says. "Why?"

"You're an investment banker," Eames tells him. "You're very good. You keep me in the style I'm accustomed to, and we are charmingly co-habitating."

Arthur pauses and tries to take that in.

"Is there a reason why I'm your imaginary boyfriend?" Arthur asks.

"You're the most responsible person I know," Eames says. "And therefore the imaginary lover she'd be the least depressed by."

"Thanks," Arthur says. "I think. And please don't tell me you call me your lover to her face."

"Dear lord no," Eames says. "That would be gauche."

Arthur looks at him. "You're old money, aren't you," he says. It's not even a question, just confirmation of suspicion.

"Ancient," Eames says, and winks.

"Is there anything else I need to know?" Arthur asks. "As your loving boyfriend?"

"Only that I swallow," Eames says, and drags him back inside.

When they get in, Eames pulls out his seat. He pulls out his seat, and then, when Arthur serves him with a glare, he leans down and presses his lips against Arthur's cheek, just a brush, stubble scraping against Arthur's skin.

Arthur goes very, very red, and can't think of a single way to hide it.

"Oh, you're absolutely charming," Eames' mother says, and orders them all champagne.

It's ten in the morning, and the day already feels like it'll never end.

They stay for three hours, somehow, and by the time they leave, Arthur is drunk. No. Arthur is _trashed_ , because Eames and his mother swallowed champagne like it was fizzy water, and kept foisting more upon him.

Arthur grew up in Idaho. He is not particularly used to champagne before noon.

Eames guides him out with a hand on the small of his back, which would be infuriating if Arthur was sure he could stand without assistance. As he isn't, he mostly leans into it, swallowing around a knot in his throat when Eames' hand slides under his jacket.

Arthur isn't paying much attention to the conversation around him, which is why he misses Eames' mother somehow con them into coming home with her.

"We have a hotel room," Eames says, even as they're following her into a car. With a driver dressed almost as well as Arthur, like every cliché about the disgustingly rich Arthur has ever heard. Arthur may be disgustingly rich, but he can drive his own car.

Except not at the moment, because Eames practically needs to pour him into the backseat.

"And Arthur has work," Eames is saying in weak protest to something out of his mother's mouth. "Right, darling?"

"We just finished the job," Arthur informs him. "Remember?"

"You are going to have a terrible hangover," Eames says. "And I will enjoy every moment of it."

Arthur resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him, but it's a near thing. "Thanks," he says instead. " _Charles_."

Eames glares.

The rest of the ride is spent in relative silence, until they pull up to a house on the outskirts of the city that looks like something out of a fairytale.

"You grew up here?" Arthur asks, as they roll up the drive-way, gardens on either side of them.

"Hm," Eames says, and gives him a hand up out of the car when they pull up, the house looming over them. Eames' mother goes on ahead. "Yes, poor little rich boy, nannies and tutors, but no motherly touch, et cetera. Stop analyzing me, I can hear you doing it."

"You are the biggest cliché ever," Arthur tells him. "Ever."

"I know," Eames says. "And now come lie down before you fall down."

Arthur is about to object, but he nearly trips over his feet, so he rethinks that.

Eames sets him up in a room in the East wing (and god, the place has _wings_ ), and the room is plush and gorgeous and almost completely uninhabitable. It makes Arthur want to sneeze.

"This room makes me want to sneeze," Arthur tells him.

"If I knew you were such a lightweight, I would not have chosen you as my imaginary boyfriend," Eames tells him, and helps him take off his shoes.

Arthur falls into sleep almost immediately, once he's horizontal, and wakes to evening light streaming through the curtains, and Eames sitting on top of the covers beside him, on the phone. He's speaking in barely passable French, and gets off the phone quickly once he realises Arthur's awake.

"Another job?" Arthur asks.

"Hm," Eames says, noncommittal. "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," Arthur says, and sits up. It's not a great feeling. "What're you doing in here?"

"Hiding from my mother," Eames says. "I blame you for the fact we are here."

"She's your mother," Arthur points out, and lies back down.

"Ours," Eames says. "Once you make an honest man of me."

Arthur rolls his eyes, and immediately regrets it. "Ow," he says, plaintive, and Eames disappears into the attached bathroom, returning with a glass of water.

"How are you not suffering?" Arthur asks, once he's sipped enough to let the pounding at his temples recede.

"Practice," Eames shrugs, and presses a hand on Arthur's back, rubbing circles low on his spine. Arthur lets his head drop forward and groans.

"I wish I had known it was so easy to make you moan," Eames remarks. "I would have done this much sooner."

Arthur gives him the finger, but doesn't move, lets Eames rub out the tension in his muscles, slow, until all he feels is lax and exhausted.

"I'm going to have to explain when you never come back," Eames says, sounding thoughtful. "Perhaps you will be taken by pirates. Or leave me for a twink named Rodrigo."

"Rodrigo?" Arthur asks. "Give me a Javier, at least."

Eames huffs out a laugh. "It will be a shame to end my sham relationship with you," Eames says. "You do make a rather good imaginary boyfriend. Best I've had."

"Do you make a habit of imaginary boyfriends?" Arthur asks, and turns his head to look at Eames. "Oh, who am I kidding, of course you do."

"Guilty," Eames says. "But if it makes you feel better, you really are the very best."

"I always am," Arthur says, and leans back into his touch. "But you should probably bring, you know, real boyfriends here."

"People have a tendency to run away screaming," Eames says. "It's rather not worth the risk. So since you already detest me, I think it's safe."

"Don't be dramatic," Arthur says. "I only despise you."

"You warm my heart, Arthur, truly," Eames says, and drops a kiss onto his cheek like it's normal. In the context of this day, it almost is.

Arthur turns his head, so that their lips are almost brushing, Eames' breath passing over his lips like a caress. "I'm not running away," he says, barely more than breath.

Eames leans in then, or he does, someone does, because they're kissing, slow and easy, like it was bound to happen, something that was always inevitable. It feels right.

Arthur pulls back, slow, and presses his forehead against Eames', closes his eyes.

"I suppose you won't leave me for Javier then," Eames says, low.

"Of course not," Arthur says. " _Charles_."

Eames knocks him off the bed, but Arthur can't regret a thing.


End file.
